


Fiddlesticks

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 16:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3903202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Other hobbits loot Bag End and Merry loots Frodo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fiddlesticks

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Set in chapter two of The Fellowship of the Ring when Merry shows up to help Frodo with the will and this totally happens.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s been a trying few days, partially because he misses Bilbo already and partially because the rest of Hobbiton won’t leave him alone. Bilbo’s will is a nightmare, giving hundreds of little things and old mathoms away to almost everyone in the Shire, and the legends make it worse. People keep poking in to check for tunnels, hidden passages bursting full of gold, none of which they’ll ever find. What little wealth Bilbo left, Frodo’s carefully hidden away, and he doesn’t plan to part with anything that isn’t already allotted to go out. If he could keep Bag End _just like this_ , warm and welcome and just the way Bilbo left it, Frodo would be happy. 

But everyone else would throw a fit, and there doesn’t seem to be anything he can do to stop the bustle. The house is full of hobbits by the time Merry arrives, and even his Brandybuck brashness can’t keep them all out. Frodo still appreciates the company, the friendship and the solidarity, the knowledge that at least there’s _someone_ on his side, not just there to carry out all his things. Merry pats his arm and grins and tells him things we’ll be okay, and even kisses his forehead fondly, which makes Milo Burrows glower at them from across Bilbo’s old writing desk. 

Merry sets to work at once, overseeing the things that leave, while Frodo sits in Bilbo’s old armchair and goes through paperwork. He tries not to worry that everything will go missing—for the most part, his neighbours aren’t full on thieves—and to just settle down. They’ll probably visit the pub later, if Pippin and Fatty make it before dark, so at least there’s that to look forward to. But he needs to make some headway on legal matters first and then search out the sturdiest lock he can find. 

He’s just gotten up to fetch tea when he hears Otho’s voice booming out from the doorstep, carrying all the way to the kitchen, “I demand to see Frodo myself, and the will, for that matter!”

Frodo’s first instinct is to run and hide—he has no worse relatives than the Sackville-Bagginses. They’ve never forgiven him for his adoption, and they aren’t likely to anytime soon, now that he’s inherited Bag End. He hears Merry answer just as loudly, “He is indisposed!” And then the door slams shut; something a proper hobbit would never dare to do. 

In Hobbiton, they don’t seem to consider Buckland hobbits proper at all. Of course, a closed door won’t keep a Sackville-Baggins out, and Frodo can already hear it reopening as Merry scrambles into the kitchen. He grabs Frodo’s wrist around the middle, and with no time to protest, Merry yanks him across the hall and into a little closet, so small it might as well be a broom-cupboard. Up until yesterday, it would’ve been too cluttered to hide in, but now there’s just enough room for Merry to pin Frodo to the wall and shut the door behind himself, their bodies flattened tight together. 

“Merry,” Frodo scolds, voice hushed, just in case, even though he’s grinning through the darkness. He can’t see anything, but he can feel Merry’s hot breath against his face, Merry’s round stomach pressing into his flatter one and Merry’s knees poking into his. One of Merry’s knees shifts to press between Frodo’s thighs, and it could just be innocent, trying to find space, but it seems unlikely when Merry’s hands follow onto Frodo’s hips. With no room to breathe, Frodo mumbles, “You’ve got some nerve.”

“Do you want to talk to them?” Merry replies, and Frodo can feel every word as much as hear it. He has to turn his head away when Merry get closer; their noses bump and Frodo looks aside. “I didn’t think so, and they were coming in either way.” In truth, Frodo’s thought of using the ring to hide more than once during all this, but this is better—Gandalf never left any warnings not to let Merry herd him into a closet. Outside, Frodo can hear the muffled footsteps of an angry Otho stomping about his precious home and other rifling in the distance. Merry’s hands slip over into Frodo’s, and for a moment, Frodo thinks he’s going to intertwine their fingers. 

But then Merry grabs hold of Frodo’s wrists and lifts them up, Over Frodo’s head, pinning them against the cold wall. He shifts them together so he can hold them both in one palm, Frodo’s arms stretched and the ends of his shirt tugging out of his trousers for it, suspenders slid in against his neck. With his other hand free, Merry weaves his fingers into Frodo’s hair, tugging at the dark curls and turning his face properly around. Merry orders quietly, “Open up.”

“They’ll hear us,” Frodo murmurs, fearful and excited all at once. His reputation’s never been good in Hobbiton, but if he’s caught kissing a friend in a closet, he’ll never live it down. He can feel Merry’s smile and the start of a laugh, and then Merry’s fingers are under his chin, pulling down his jaw to open his mouth. It makes Frodo wish he’d been obedient the first time—of course he’d give in eventually. 

Merry’s kisses are never quite _chaste_ , not even the first ones given with all their clothes on and nowhere near the bed. He opens his mouth wide and bids Frodo to do the same, his tongue slipping into Frodo’s mouth to swirl around, play with his teeth and lap at his walls. It makes Frodo shiver and feel glad his hands are held out of the way—otherwise he might latch on and progress this past where it can go. 

Merry kisses him and kisses him, and only parts to whisper, hot against his ear, “I can’t help it. You’re so damn _pretty_. Every time I come to Hobbiton, this is all I can think about.”

“What kind of friend are you?” Frodo returns, wanting to laugh but not daring to. Merry answers his question by kissing him again, the hand in his hair moving to trail down his chest, along his stomach, curving past his hip to take a fistful of his ass. Merry squeezes, kneading his round rear with all five fingers. Frodo’s gasps and moans get muffled in Merry’s mouth. If he weren’t so firmly pinned in place, he’d probably drop to his knees and get them started. He’ll probably never truly fit in in Hobbiton, anyway. 

When Merry’s done feeling Frodo’s ass, he moves his hand around to the front, cupping Frodo’s crotch. Frodo mewls desperately, trying to buck into Merry’s palm, but there’s no room. He can feel Merry’s smirk against his mouth. When Merry’s head turns away, Frodo tries to follow it, worried his pathetic keening noises will draw in all their visitors. 

But Merry’s already nestled it alongside Frodo’s, so he can lick at Frodo’s ear and whisper right into it, “You should move to Buckland.”

Frodo whimpers, whining, “ _Merry_ ,” and cutting himself off just in time. He feels faint, worse every time Merry’s hand squeezes around him, holding him in check. He’s rewarded for his plea with a peck to his cheek.

“Come live with me, or next to me,” Merry purrs, “So we can do this _all the time_ , nothing else.” Frodo’s dizzy with want, and he nods hazily—maybe someday—his mouth letting out another whimpering mewl. Merry’s fingers dig hard into Frodo’s trousers, wrapping around the outline of his cock: a definite promise. 

Frodo’s about to answer, but then a horrible voice shrieks, “Frodo!” and Frodo winces back, all his interest spiraling down. 

Lobelia is the ultimate mood-killer. Frodo doesn’t need to see Merry’s face to know it’s irritated. They can both hear her knocking about, and they must both know they can’t stay—unlike the rest of the squatters in Frodo’s home, Lobelia will steal everything she can if she isn’t being watched.

Frodo’s the first one to admit, “We’d better keep an eye on her.” He only manages to get the words out because Merry’s let go of him. He still needs a few seconds, where he presses his face into Merry’s shoulder and just _breathes_ , wondering what it would’ve been like if he had stayed in Buckland, and spent his twenties in and out of Pippin and Merry’s games and beds. 

He can’t really have regrets. He loves Bilbo, and he loves Bag End. And he has good enough friends to visit and have them visit him. Merry reassures him, “I’m staying for a few days, anyway.” Merry kisses Frodo’s head.

Then he takes Frodo’s hand, opens the closet and leads him out. Lobelia doesn’t look any happier to see a disheveled, flushed Frodo any more than she would’ve been a properly made up one. Frodo gives her the spoons Bilbo left her. 

By the time he finally manages to usher her and Otho out the door, she splutters, “You don’t belong here; you’re no Baggins—you—you’re a Brandybuck!”

Frodo only chuckles, “You hear that, Merry?” as he shuts the door too happily in her face. It’s hardly an insult, and Merry bursts into laughter.


End file.
